The Tale of Mawroth Rustheart
by Atelniar
Summary: Not all orcs are brutal and fierce warriors. Some of their kind are fated to live their lives as peons. In the Barrens, prior to the Cataclysm, lives a lone orc by the name of Mawroth Rustheart. Take heart and follow his tale, for it is one of pity.
1. Visions of Fate

**Visions of Fate**

A mild breeze swept through the palm-trees. Nairn sat calmly on the hillside. He really enjoyed watching the turtles thrive in the soothing water. They were proof of the potential the Barrens held and that even if the Horde were well-known for destroying large amounts of forests. They were also capable of shielding life, with the help of the Cenarion Circle that was. _Green, blue, yellow, hazel brown and red. Grass, water, flowers, palm-trees and turtles. Plants, insects and animals. We're all a part of this world._

The great tauren, Nairn, found himself blinking a little tear out of the corner of his large eye. Sniffing with his mighty snout at the soft fumes of nature's blessings. _If only __**all**__ creatures could be as peaceful as this. With Thrall as Warchief there is hope for the Horde. But I'm still feeling uneasy._ The mighty tauren's black mane of thick hair flickered in the wind, surrounding his neck like a cloak shields a man from the cold. His horns looked like a dusky-silver moon, gleaming brightly when sunlight cascaded across their length.

Nairn could hear something, or someone, approaching the oasis. A puff of of air blowing from his nostrils as he grabbed his wooden staff, keen on protecting what he cherished. What he saw then almost made him fall with his snout first into the water pond. He had to lean onto his staff like an elder, a small chuckle escaping his mouth. A few yards ahead he noticed a scrawny looking, by their measures, orc. The little orc walked clumsily towards the oasis, carrying a bucket. He approach the oasis with a smile on his distorted face that seemed remarkably out of place.

Mawroth walked under the mighty palm-trees. Carrying the old bucket by his right-hand side. He couldn't help but enjoy the scenery. It always made him feel cheerful, or whatever they called that emotion. He couldn't really understand it, so fundamentally different from what he had learned from his father. He knelt at the oasis, scooping up some of the water, only to notice a large shadow in the water. _What the?..._

"Hail thee, little orc." Nairn spoke friendly, his rumbling voice enough to make turtles stick their heads a few inches up to examine the source. Mawroth growled in surprise, losing the grip on the slippery rocks with his feet. He fell head first into the pond. Nairn blinked, unable to comprehend the reaction to his greeting. Water rippling the surface where the orc had fallen into the water. Suddenly, Nairn felt a strange source emitting vibrations through the water. He gently poked the water with his staff, and the ripples ceased at once. They were replaced by images. Images of a white predator with a dusky shade to its fur. In an instant images flew across Nairn's mind. A mystical elf in elegant garments, framed by silvery-white hair. Snarling like a beast from the surface. He also saw that same orc from just now. The image of the orc made Nairn close his eyes. His throat was pierced. Blood pumping out of deep holes. His neck bent grotesquely.

"Bloody tauren, would you mind helping me up here?" As Nairn opened his eyes he saw the very same orc, alive. He blinked sadly, unable to understand this vision. "I'm sorry, little orc." He added in his mind, to himself: _I'm __**so**__ sorry._ The orc stepped out of the water, a grin on his distorted features. "No biggie. I'm just a little clumsy, my father always said I would end up on the bottom of a pond one day." A wild laughter ran off his tongue. Nairn couldn't help but chuckle at the orc's spirit. So weak, yet so brave, admitting his flaws. _Maybe there is hope._

"My friend, I'm Nairn." The tauren bowed, his tail flickering in a respectful manner behind him. The orc stopped laughing, bewildered by this respectful tauren. In his entire life, never before had any creature showed him a sign of respect. He returned the bow swiftly, almost toppling over because of his clumsy nature. "Let me give you a friendly advise. Live as you are, there's nothing wrong in being weaker than others, as long as you try to be what you are. By the best of your abilities, live. **Live on**." The tauren turned, slowly walking away from Mawroth who blinked stupidly. He was unable to understand a single word coming from the, in his eyes, mad tauren.

"I'd be darned." While briskly struggling home towards his hut with the bucket full of water, Mawroth mumbled to himself. "One day there's mad cows talking in riddles, what's next, turtles with leg guards?" Mawroth sighed to himself, pulling the bucket up on the ledge by the wall, water spilling over the edge and trailing down the side of the bucket until it fell freely onto the dry ground. Mawroth found himself yawning, too tired to prepare his meal, he flung himself onto his straw-stuffed pillow and fell instantly asleep.


	2. A Hope of Living

**A Hope of Living**

When sleep crawls down upon a creature there is little one can consciously do. All that transpire before the eyes is deemed true by the subconscious mind. There is no escaping it until one wakes up. That is a thing everyone learns early on. It is a part of growing up, to see those blissful dreams turn sour, when the past repeats itself.

The same was true for Mawroth Rustheart where he lay in his little hut. Weak as he was, for an orc, living life itself was tough enough. But even so he found his memories taunting him in the deepest corners of his mind. None can escape their past. Nor the consequences of what you do, in the end. A sleepwalker within the painted picture of a fading reality.

Those memories of his brave brother, so greedy for honor and glory in the name of the Horde. The taunting vision of the older orc leaving one evening, never to return. A father that scolded him for his weak stature as a peon. How he no longer could deal with it and left the settlement. Cursing his own pathetic weakness and yet wanting nothing to do with violence.

The memory of guards that purposely burnt down what he would build. Wells, huts and gardens alike. The taunting laughs of children when he needed supplies in the city, for such a weak and hunched creature was to be despised by all. Every time he slept he was reminded of what he was. A peon earns nothing, he is to be pestered into work and then hope for a little sleep to weed out the pain of his labor.

By then the salty tears had long since dried. He pitied himself, despised his misery and hated his legacy. The time for change would never be a part of his life, but a taunting promise of the green patch on the other side. With the blur of images from the past came a loss of focus, the vision blurring out completely before Mawroth found himself looking down on a scarred version of the barren land he called his home. There was grass there, and cracks in the ground. Yet life seemed to flourish. Mawroth could all too clearly feel the soft tickle of lively grass against the sole of his feet.

_The patch of grass,_

_Holds within,_

_A painless touch_

_Such a gentle mass,_

_Not a taint of sin,_

_Remains the weakest punch_

_To sleep, to wake_

_I weep, I rake_

_What kind of life is that?_

A poem that echoed within the mind of a humble and rather weak orc, every night. It failed to fade. To leave him alone. Instead it refreshed him for what was bound to be. _To dream, to live, to be_. At least he could enjoy the knowledge of this, transparent as it may be to him. The steady rhythm of fate knocking...


	3. An Orc's Honor

**An Orc's Honor**

The wooden beams supporting the hut shook with every knock. Slowly Mawroth found himself awakening from his slumber, his rough face buried in his straw-stuffed pillow with dirty cloth coating it. His darkly shaded, purple beard a complete mess. The braids along the side of his cheeks laying to each side and his rough, darkly shaded, green nose moving in disgust over this treatment. With anger in his heart, his pulse throbbed wildly and he found himself jumping up from his comfortable position on the ground. His arms reaching wildly for the beam supporting the doorway as he stepped outside his hut, eager to strangle whoever was responsible.

"Mawroth Rustheart?" A large, muscular orc stood before him, his shoulders decked in plate pauldrons with many scratches. A large lump forming in his throat made it impossible for him to answer at first. The soldier before him struck his fist into the wooden wall of the hut, next to Mawroth's right cheek. "Are **you** Mawroth Rustheart? Answer me!" Mawroth could have sworn he felt his dark-green skin turning a bit paler. "Y-yes, Sir!" He tried to salute the soldier, but it was an awkward pose and he simply tried to relax his stance and not make a fool of himself.

"Get a hold of yourself, scum. You have two minutes to get any necessary belongings and make yourself representable for the duty in the Gulch." The soldier, towering a head above Mawroth pointed his thumb over his rustling plate shoulders, indicating the area further north of Mawroth's little hut in the middle of the Barrens. Mawroth could feel the lump in his throat gliding past an uncomfortable spot, as if it wanted to enter his stomach, but his body declined such a initiative. _You've got to be kidding me!_

Two minutes later Mawroth found himself briskly struggling with following the large soldier as he stepped forward on the deserted path headed north. Everything was bright, the sun was boiling and the sand felt like heated coal under his feet. He recognized mountains of golden earth with streaks of brown and spoiled green in the distance. As well as a large tower before green grass, lush as the oasis where he used to fish. "Why **me**?" He stuttered, struggling to contain the shaky nerves in his voice.

The soldier before him didn't respond for a minute before he stopped in his tracks, laughing. "Why not? You have no needed skills for supporting our society, you're better spent as a scarecrow in the fields while the real orcs kill the Alliance forces one by one. So shut up and follow me, you piece of dirt!" The soldier continued onwards with grumpy snorts and heavy steps. Mawroth couldn't help but feel like the dirt the soldier was stepping on and inside his pulse felt as if steel was moving in his veins. A feeling that chilled him to the very bones of his being. _Why is it always me?_

As the agonizing minutes slowly crawled by he saw the path leading up to the station where there was ruined ballistic weapons and shattered swords resting against the hill. An enormous orc stepped forward in front of a gate where Mawroth could sense a sinister aura of death. "Another one?" The large orc spoke with poison in his voice, looking down at Mawroth with squinted eyes. The soldier behind Mawroth merely nodded. Then they tossed Mawroth a large mace and some cheap plate armor. "Put it on, you scum!"

Ten minutes later, after finally having put on the frail plate armor and holding the sturdy mace in his right hand, he stood before the gates. It felt as if the aura of death would overpower him. "Enter, it's perfectly safe, even for someone as weak as you. Kill what you can, and maybe you'll be able to see your pesky little hut again." The soldier who had brought him there laughed wickedly, enjoying the horror emitting from Mawroth's eyes. Then he pushed Mawroth with all his might against the dark tunnel. In fright and horror Mawroth ran as fast as his clumsy feet could carry him until he fell onto the floor of a large fortress. _By Durotar's plains!_

There were others as well, a undead dressed in menacing robes scowled at him, his voice a hissing snarl. "Try not to **die** before I get **them**, maybe you'll live to return to wherever you come from." Mawroth felt as if he was going to oil his plate leg guards, without using oil. His hands were shaking. _Why me!_ A loud drumming thunder could be heard. Orcs, undead, blood elves, trolls and tauren alike all ran out of the base. A powerful orc stood on top of a log several yards ahead as they rushed down the tunnel. Everyone could hear that single orc roaring with authority. "**Chaaaaargeee!**"

Feeling his blood boil with fear and excitement, Mawroth ran over the dirty sand. Dust flying up behind his feet as he sprinted forward. His ears filled with the sound of plate meeting plate as he ran forward, struggling not to fall over. He halted to observe his surroundings. Elves were clashing against one-another. Blood elves and night elves snarling at each-others with hatred glowing in their mystical eyes, causing shivers to run through Mawroth's spine. Humans screaming in terror as the undead in those menacing robes rained terror upon them with powerful dark magic. He started breathing heavy, his feet feeling like heavy rocks as he saw a crouched elf sneaking around a log, looking at the undead with murderous intent. Mawroth felt his fear fly away, replaced by hatred and fear for his honor. The undead could not have noticed that elf, the way it sneaked around. Without another thought he sprinted forward, lifting his mace, ready to charge into battle for the first time in his life. _For the Horde!_


	4. An Inevitable Fate

**An Inevitable Fate**

Atelniar hid amongst the branches of a bush, next to the base of a chopped tree, watching the battle as it unfolded before his eyes. Shrieks of agony were crushed silently down by the refreshing wind. He noticed a warlock, wreaking havoc upon his allies. One by one they fell victim to the dark magic. The sauntering undead jumping onto a log, avoiding a human warrior when he charged at it. Atelniar watched the undead. The creature cackling manically, sending down a rain of fire on those who were near.

_War. It sickens me. The Horde have destroyed the land itself, tainting what was sacred. _ A deafening blow cracked against the elf's back. His head swimming in pain. Eyes blinking in confusion. Atelniar thrust the end of his staff into the golden, barren earth. Trying to remain upright. His body felt stiff and dazed from the sudden blow.

The orc lifted his mace for a second time, cursing the elf that remained on his feet after the first blow. Flexing his fists around the base of the mace, he drove the weapon down on the wounded elf. Closing his eyes, reminiscing in the blood lust that coursed through his veins, as he savored the pleasure of striking down an elf. Mawroth smirked, his mace split seconds from mashing into the elf's skull. Suddenly he heard a sharp, screeching sound. The armor at his stomach giving away, rusty metal splintering off, leaving him wide open to a fatal attack. The armor he had been given was not meant to be used, it should have been disposed of long ago. His mace bit into the ground, dust whirling up. The orc could barely see his own hands that grasped around the handle of the weapon. His head filled quickly with fear. He could not see the elf, neither dead nor living, his strike missed. A moment later a growl echoed close by. Fearsome claws cleaved the orc's stomach region open with one swift movement.

The druid had morphed into a large cat, dodging the blow from the orc with ease before lashing back at the orc with sharp claws. At first the druid was confused, surprised at the ease with which his opponent was neutralized. The cat circled around the orc slowly. Claws bared, digging into the ground as he prepared himself for the final assault. That monster would die there and then, Atelniar was ruthless and an opportunist. Terror incarnate. Glowing eyes watching the orc. Hate in his glare as he waited. The wound would sap the strength away from the orc and then he would attack.

Mawroth saw his loins soaked in blood. His knees gave in and fell to the ground. He lost the grasp around the mace, dust stirring as the weapon fell to the ground with a low thud. He could not muster the strength needed to get back on his feet or even grasp his weapon again. His upper torso went numb quickly, rendering the orc unable to move. Mawroth was scared, he did not want to die on a battlefield. He had spent all his years attempting to avoid it. _I don't want to die, not like this!_

Mawroth coughed up blood, the sand mixing with it. His whole body trembled. Looking down, he saw the wounds that were torn across his stomach. His armor having fallen apart, laying on the ground in small splinters and flakes of rusty metal. Blood poured out from the deep gashes in thick torrents. His mind froze when the animal made its approach. _No._ A wild growl emitting from the great cat before it launched forward. Claws grasped Mawroth by the head, the druid sinking his fangs into the orc's neck. Atelniar pinned him into the ground, the orc still struggling helplessly. A breathless scream ending abruptly. The druid overpowering the orc with brute strength.

Soulshikar nimbly moved forward, as fast as he could without being spotted by the warlock. The undead stood in the open field, watching the Alliance forces as they fled from him. Soulshikar was leaning his back against a log, hiding his presence as best as he could from the target. The sounds of Atelniar murdering the orc could be heard clearly, alarming the undead. The warlock made its way towards the log quickly. There was a hoarse scream, a gut wrenching sound filling the air. It resembled a neck bone being twisted with force and then snapped off. _He is reckless, that druid._ Soulshikar retreated from his position, watching Atelniar as he dashed away from the open field. The undead would live to see another day.

Mawroth lay still. Face down in the dust, with eyes wide open as they peered into the barren earth, stone dead. The young orc lost his life on the battlefield. He was one of many on that day. The forces of the Alliance eventually retreated from the field. They left a bloodstained banner of the Horde behind, broken into pieces at the entrance to the Horde base. A lone undead looking down at the broken body of Mawroth Rustheart, a young orc that once lived in the Barrens.


End file.
